Hell to Pay
by Pendrecarc
Summary: The waiting ended, as it had begun, on a balmy summer evening—it was hours after dark, and he was standing on the Quidditch Pitch while pandemonium reigned in the grandstands." While Harry Potter duels the Dark Lord in an abandoned graveyard, others are


_My first effort—thanks to Saradas for her beta. Feedback is always welcome._

Hell to Pay

"There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was, an hour or so ago, when it burnt black, but you can still see it…. This Mark has been growing clearer all year." —_Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

The waiting ended, as it had begun, on a balmy summer evening—it was hours after dark, and he was standing on the Quidditch Pitch while pandemonium reigned in the grandstands.

He was surrounded by mass chaos, watching with mingled consternation and amusement as barely-controlled panic descended upon the crowd of students and teachers, when suddenly everything else ceased abruptly to exist. The world was reduced to himself and the searing pain on his left arm, and it was then that he knew.

It had begun innocuously enough, as a slight itch under the sleeve of his robe as he sat revising his potions curriculum in preparation for the students' return the following week. He had assumed naturally that it was the aftereffect of some ingredients he'd been working with that afternoon, scratched at it absently once or twice, and then promptly forgot the incident.

Forgot it until, that is, the irritation returned with a vengeance the night of the Sorting, when he found himself rubbing the same patch of skin at the opening feast, and realized with a start that it was in the precise location that the Mark had once occupied. A fluke, he told himself, and that was easy enough to believe; he put it down to a rare case of nerves brought on by Alastor Moody's presence. Snape knew the mad old bastard had never entirely believed in his change of loyalties during the war, and the intense scrutiny he found himself facing as the school year progressed convinced him that Moody did not and never would believe that Snape had truly turned from Voldemort's fold. He couldn't step outside his office without feeling the piercing stare of the former Auror's magical eye fixed on his back, couldn't eat in the Great Hall away from the pegged leg and hip flask, couldn't even walk down the halls without glancing furtively over his shoulder. Merlin's beard, but he felt like a schoolchild frightened of being caught cheating on a test—he, Potions Master, Head of Slytherin House, trusted confidante of Albus Dumbledore himself. And all the while, that slight itch was progressing gradually to a burn and beginning to flare up at regular intervals. No matter how he tried to explain it away, the Mark was impossible to ignore.

He should have gone to Dumbledore then, poured out his growing concern (not panic, not that just yet) before it went much farther. But there were the foreign students to consider, the tournament to be planned, and a host of other things for the Headmaster to deal with; one more preoccupation seemed needless. At least, so went his justification. Severus Snape knew full well that he emphatically did _not_ want to discuss the Mark with Albus, that he was hoping that by keeping the matter a secret, it would disappear. But nothing disappeared, not the gnawing anxiety, not the sleepless nights, and not—never!—the outline of the Mark that was growing clearer day by day. He itched to curse it off or simply scrape the skin from his arm, but such attempts would, he knew, only be futile and melodramatic. So he took out his anxiety on his classes instead and kept up the façade of life-as-usual for months.

Of course, there was still Moody to deal with. When he wasn't rooting through Snape's storage cupboards or following him through the corridors, he was keeping his blasted eye fixed on Karkaroff, which was nearly as unnerving. Igor was handling the stress badly, becoming tense and edgy, but it wasn't until the break between terms that he finally came to Snape to ask in a terrified whisper whether he'd noticed anything strange about his Mark. It was then that Severus went to Dumbledore, realizing that to keep his silence any longer might be disastrous if, as he was coming to believe, this pointed to some impending threat. The Headmaster had seemed troubled but not in the least surprised, and Snape had left the interview feeling as though there was a great deal going on behind his back. It was not a comfortable feeling.

After telling Dumbledore, there really was nothing to do but wait. And Severus waited. Oh, yes, he waited—through weeks and months of mental torment, he continued to juggle Moody and Karkaroff and all the other distractions life had to offer, and then suddenly it all came to a head during the Third Task of the bloody Triwizard Tournament. He was as shocked as anyone else when Potter and Diggory disappeared, but he followed orders and began the tasks of demolishing the maze and exerting crowd control until he was brought up short in his tracks by the blinding pain of the Dark Lord's summons.

It faded gradually after a few interminable moments, and Snape became aware once more of the breeze tugging at his robes, the cool night air on his face, and the dew-spattered grass under his feet. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and clutched at his arm, even as the truth worked its way through his brain.

Karkaroff was still near the medical tent after looking in on Krum; Snape could see him lose color from across the pitch. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds before Karkaroff began moving rapidly away from the crowd, headed back toward the castle. Severus let out a snort of disgust—did the fool really think running away was an option now?—and looked instead for Dumbledore, finding him mere yards away speaking urgently with Fudge and Minerva.

He closed the distance between them with a few strides, clearing his throat. Fudge seemed disgruntled at the interruption, but Albus turned around without hesitation.

"Headmaster," Snape began, then stopped in astonishment at how hoarse his voice sounded. He cleared his throat a second time and collected himself. "I—you recall the matter I brought to your attention over the Christmas holidays?"

"Really, Albus, is there any time for small talk?" Fudge piped up impatiently.

Dumbledore was giving Snape his undivided attention by now, and he waved a hand in dismissal. "One moment, Cornelius. Severus?"

He stepped in closer, concealing his actions from the Minister, and pulled his the sleeve of his robe up past the wrist, turning his arm so the Headmaster could see the charcoal-black sign that was outlined against pale skin. "I've been summoned, Albus," he said in barely more than a whisper, taking care that his voice did not carry passed the older wizard's ears.

Dumbledore bowed his head momentarily, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of weariness and resignation before lifting his gaze to regard Snape gravely. "Thank you, Severus. Please try to return some order to the crowd, if you can—and then I think we will need to speak about this at greater length." His hand reached out briefly to touch the Mark, cool fingers lending the slightest bit of relief to the still-hot surface. Snape nodded and turned sharply away, intending to join Flitwick and the others as they herded students into organized groups, but was forced to stop abruptly when Hermione Granger appeared out of nowhere, directly in his path.

"Granger," he snapped, wanting nothing less than to be confronted with one of Potter's notorious sidekicks. "Do watch where you're going."

She looked up at him, much to his surprise, and actually talked back to him. "I'm sorry, Professor. I just wondered—"

He really was _not_ in the mood to deal with her. "Shouldn't you be elsewhere, Granger? With Weasley, perhaps, rather than standing in my way?"

The little chit barely batted an eye. "No one will tell us what's going on. I really don't mean to be a bother, sir, but we'd like to know what's happened to Harry."

He should have spat out something to send her off in tears, but something in her upturned face and wide, questioning (impertinent, he corrected mentally) brown eyes prompted him to answer, to shock her beyond belief. Snape bared his arm for the second time that night, wondering why on earth he would show this to the bloody Gryffindor know-it-all, and thrust the Mark right under her insolent little nose, replying with what he believed beyond a doubt to be the truth.

"The Dark Lord has returned, Miss Granger. This is his doing, and he has returned to summon all those who once pledged loyalty to him, and by now Potter and Diggory are dead."

_You indescribable fool_, he berated himself. Her eyes had opened wider, if that was possible, and she let out a gasp, looking up into his face rather than at his arm. "Dead?" The question came out so softly that he barely heard it.

"Undoubtedly." He watched her take in the idea and was stunned to see her display no hysteria, only a shattering grief and, beyond it, a calm acceptance. He spoke again, letting his voice become a fraction gentler. "It is beginning again, Granger. The Dark Lord has returned." She swallowed, and Snape found himself continuing. "There is only a matter of time before we are at war. Are you ready?" She blinked, and he was reminded sharply that she was only fourteen years old. "Miss Granger. Are you ready to fight?"

He could almost see the wheels turning inside her overactive brain as she grappled with everything he had said. Begrudgingly, he had to admire her composure. But still she was regarding him as evenly as though he had not just declared himself a Death Eater—surely she understood what the Mark meant! She took in a long breath and spoke decisively. "Yes, sir. I'm ready."

And he realized in that moment that his idiotic blunder would not end in disaster, but that she meant to keep this entirely to herself. His secret was safe with Granger, of all people. He felt suddenly drained and nodded at her dismissively. "Go back to Weasley, then. And for Merlin's sake keep quiet about this."

He watched her retreating back without really seeing it, his mind already focused on what was about to happen. It was indeed beginning again. The Order would be reconvened. The old allies would be called upon for help. Albus would send him back to the Death Eaters, and, willingly, he would go.

There would be hell to pay for that summer evening, that much he knew. He pushed aside the terror that threatened to choke him, turning once again toward his fellow teachers. And, strangely, he found himself thinking back to the look in Granger's eyes when she had left him—brimming with unshed tears, they had nevertheless been firm and resolute and, above all, filled with an inexplicable affirmation of trust. Complete, utter trust—in him.


End file.
